


Morning

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Incest, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-09
Updated: 2011-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-19 05:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An uneventful morning in a polyamorous household.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat, and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

John's aware of the usual sentiment, that there's something unspeakably wonderful about waking up in someone else's arms. He could even analyse the idea by break it down into psychological, biochemical and socio-economic reasons, but mostly he doesn't really think about it. This morning for instance, the first sensation that greets him is warmth under the bedcovers, a sense of relaxation when he realises that he's woken up before his alarm and a certain laziness that comes from knowing that he doesn't actually have to get up if he doesn't want to. He really only pays attention to the hand on his hip much later, after he's rubbed at his eyes, stretched, run his fingers through his hair and supposed that he ought to shower in a bit. Even then, he reaches over for his mobile and checks his credit card balance before thinking much about his bed partner. In fact, he's reading the _Evening Standard_ , scrolling though the articles idly, when there are at last the first stirrings of wakefulness behind him.

“Morning.”

He makes some non-committal noise in reply, still reading the article about yet more tube strikes, and ignores both trailing hands and light kisses pressed to his shoulder. It's the sound of soft laughter behind him finally captures his attention.

“Hmm?” He doesn't turn his head but he does, at least, put his phone down on the pillow.  
“You're as bad as Sherlock.”

John considers that. Not that he supposes that Sherlock reads news feeds in bed out of general curiosity. In fact, as far as John knows, Sherlock does one of two things with his phone when he's in bed: he either obsessively texts his brother or Googles medical symptoms in some kind of hypochondriac fit. The last time he'd been indulging in the latter, John had been woken in the early hours of the morning by the sound of Sherlock crashing round the flat, packing a suitcase, while loudly on the phone to his brother. As John recalls, he'd been making arrangements to go visit his parents, which ought not to have warranted that level of hyperactive enthusiasm as far as John's concerned. Then again, the fact that Sherlock had hugged John, when John had come down the stairs to tell him to be quiet, and had gleefully announced that he _wasn't_ a sociopath might have had something to do with it.

“Sherlock's not a sociopath.” John points out, feeling like it ought to be contributing to the conversation.  
“Suppose not. He doesn't fit the profile for a serial killer either.”  
“Really?” John turns his head a little.  
“Yeah. Doesn't care enough about it. Oh, he cares about the individual components but the overall? He's too interested in the details to manage it.”  
“That's good to know.”  
“You on the other hand...”  
“Military psych evaluation. Wouldn't have passed otherwise.”  
“You're a _psychiatrist_ , of course you passed.”

In a general consensus of movement John rolls over to lie on his side, so that he can look down at the face of a highly amused DI. He'd try to hold that gaze if not for the fact that trailing his hand over Lestrade's chest is eminently more fascinating.

“You have a thing for male body hair.” Gregory comments, not trying to deter John's exploration in the slightest.  
“You have a thing for younger men.”  
“Oi!”  
“Don't mess with the base psychiatrist. You never know where they'll send you next.” John grins.  
“Seeing as you're so much younger... go make me a coffee?” Gregory returns with an answering smile.

It's about that time of day anyway so John clambers over Gregory to get out of bed, something that Gregory doesn't at all help with. In fact, half way through the motion, John pauses, straddling the other man.

“You can sit on my cock later. Coffee first.” Gregory swats at John's thigh lightly.  
John doesn't move, settling himself more comfortably, before bending down for a lingering kiss.

A little while later John finally manages to get out of bed. Having found pyjama bottoms and his dressing-gown, he hands his laptop over to Gregory, who's now sat up in bed, before making for the door.

“And take your morning breath with you.” Gregory calls after him, laughing.

 

Downstairs the living room door is closed, which gives John pause before he shrugs and decides that it whatever it is, can't be that bad. Inside, there's only really the lingering smell of smoke to bother him. Both windows are open and Sherlock appears to be doing the dishes in the kitchen. John eyes the ashtray, empty wineglass and box of nicotine patches on the coffee table.

“Spring cleaning?”  
“Mycroft's bringing breakfast.” Sherlock puts one last dish to the side and tugs off the yellow washing up gloves with particular viciousness.

The current truce between the brothers is probably less of a temporary peace than the beginnings of a final and lasting one. Sherlock appears to have made peace with the idea that he's not inherently inhuman and settled whatever problems have kept him from visiting his parents in the past. He's still in the throes of learning to be less reflexively rude to Sergeant Donovan on instinct, and Gregory has long since admitted that he deliberately lets Sherlock rag on Anderson, because Anderson annoys Gregory as well, but it's a start.

“John.”  
“Hmm?”  
“Stop it.”  
John adopts his most innocent expression.  
“Psychopath.” Sherlock mutters, quickly turning away to hide a fond smile, as he puts the kettle on. “How does the liar upstairs take his coffee?”  
“White, no sugar. Why don't you know this already?”  
Sherlock ignores the question. “There's some of those Tor Turkish left by the way.”

John wanders over to the coffee table and finds that indeed, there are less than a half a dozen cigarettes left in the packet. He fishes one out and lights it, inhaling thoughtfully.

“I told you: I pickpocket him when he's annoying.” Sherlock adds, by way of explanation. “His ex use to smoke them.”  
“At Cambridge. You've said.”  
“Still don't know which college though.”

John smiles and makes himself comfortable on the couch. He's used to Sherlock's curious fascination with Gregory's educational background by now. It's something that Sherlock could just ask about or probably just look up somewhere but for some reason it's turned into a game of deduction. Every time Sherlock makes another breakthrough, John is regaled with the details. So far Sherlock's discovered that Gregory never took A-Levels and instead did the International Baccalaureate, that he speaks rudimentary French and reads it well enough to not have to reach for a translation if a phrase or two turns up and that, when he's not paying attention, he slips into the older style of Received Pronunciation. He's also a fan of German opera, in particular Mozart, is something of an expert on scotch and reads a fair amount of classic literature. John's personally heard the diatribe about the prevalence of 'artistic male nudes' on the cover of nearly every piece of classic gay literature.

“You could just ask.” John throws it out there anyway.

Predictably, Sherlock ignores him, so John turns his attention to the laptop on the table. Looking through Sherlock's browsing history John grins.

“Do you actually fancy Michael McIntyre?”  
“What? No, of course not.”  
“He looks a bit like Mycroft.”

Sherlock seems to consider that, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. John laughs. It's so typically Sherlock to respond like that. Anyone else would have ignored John's teasing but not Sherlock. It's fairly apparent, to John at least, that Sherlock evaluates the attractiveness of any and everyone in respect to his brother.

“Mycroft's better looking.” Sherlock says, at length.  
“Glad we got that straightened out.”  
“Mycroft's voice is... smoother too.”  
“Sherlock, can we not get into the finer points of why you fancy your brother at this hour of the morning?”  
“You find him attractive too.”  
“Yes but-”  
Gregory's laugher from the doorway interrupts them. “It's just like boarding school all over again.”

Sherlock's eyes narrow but he goes back to making coffee instead of commenting. Gregory, still grinning, moves over to join John on the couch, and snatch the last remains of the cigarette from John's fingers.

“Have to watch those Charterhouse boys. They're always a little bit... slutty.” Gregory stage-whispers.  
“So I've heard.”  
“The hockey players are the worst.” A sage nod. “Vicious too.”  
“Says the man whose physical exertion consists almost entirely of rugby tackles these days.” Sherlock distinctly looks down his nose at Gregory, even as he hands over the coffee.  
“Comes with the job. Like learning how to yell 'oi' like you're south of the river all the time.” Gregory returns amiably, stubbing the cigarette out and turning his attention to the coffee.

Settled comfortably with their drinks, they sit in silence for a while.

“Anyway, I wasn't the slutty one.” Sherlock begins.

John sips his coffee to hide his smile. Sherlock has a theory about the friendship groups people form at school or at least, at boarding school, which sounds suspiciously like the generic formula for creating a boy-band that John's heard mentioned from time to time. Apparently, at least four people are required, so that you have a smart friend, a ditzy one, a slutty one and a wildcard. John still isn't entirely sure that he believes that Sherlock was the ditzy one though. Considering that, it takes him a minute to realise that the conversation's changed and that he's lost track of it.

“Perfectly legal.” Sherlock states, adamantly.  
“I think you'll find it's not.” Gregory's actually frowning a little.  
“Nonsense. As long as you don't have your stick above your waist-”  
“Trying to smash in someone's shins is never going to be a legal move, no matter how you phrase it.”  
Sherlock snorts. “What kind of soft little finishing school did _you_ go to?”  
“One where brawling on the pitch would've got you a week's worth of detentions, not just a slap on the wrist and being told not to do it again.”  
“Builds character. If you can't handle yourself in a small fracas then-”  
“A small- you _broke someone's nose_!”  
Sherlock sighs contentedly. “That was my moment of glory, I'll have you know. Weekites thought twice about badmouthing us after that, let me tell you.”

Gregory rolls his eyes but gives up the argument anyway. It's an ongoing one and Sherlock refuses to give any ground, firm in the belief that going down in a punch up on the hockey pitch during an inter-house match was his defining moment of glory at school.

“The least you could have done was go for rubgy instead.” John points out.  
“Rugby is for brigands. I never actually bit anyone anyway.”  
“You tried to bite me.” Gregory admonishes.  
“ _You_ were preventing me following a suspect.”  
“I thought you _were_ a suspect. Watch this one, John, he's got claws.”

John's already heard the story of how Sherlock and Gregory first met. They'd both been after a suspect and, in a sense, Sherlock had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Gregory had gone after him, managed to wrestle him to the ground and had almost had his eyes put out for his trouble. Sherlock bites if he's losing, John's been informed, and isn't above trying to scratch out his opponent’s eyes if it serves his purpose either.

“Mycroft doesn't fight fairly either.”  
“Mycroft's never tried to bite me.”  
“Maybe not, but you've never seen him in tournaments.”  
“Right. You're going to tell me that he cheated at fencing now?”  
“Of course. Watch his feet at close range. He's not above sweeping your legs out from under you and calling it an accident.”

John peers into his almost empty coffee cup, content to listen to their bickering. It's oddly restful, just sitting quietly, occasionally commenting, while Sherlock defends what seems to be a history of fights that he's been in.

“What my brother fails to point out is that there's a world of difference between tournament fencing and the real thing.”

Mycroft leans casually against the door frame, wicker basket emblazoned with the Fortnum's logo in hand.

“Picnic on Clapham Common, is it?” Gregory teases.  
“Too chilly this morning. We'll just have to do with first flush Darjeeling indoors instead.”  
Sherlock yawns, stretches and uncurls from his seat, moving to take the basket from his brother.  
“I believe there's also some white yunnan with... eucalyptus, I think it is.” Mycroft adds, looking in John's direction.

John smiles warmly. Mycroft is always wonderfully solicitous of John's preferences, unlike Sherlock, who's currently rooting through the basket in search of the bottle of Cassis that's bound to be in there.

 

Breakfast is a fairly uneventful affair. A few kir royals, accompanied by fresh salmon and bilinis is enough to leave Sherlock in a rather mellow mood. Mycroft indulges in the champagne as well, and falls into easy conversation with Gregory over the merits of _The Abduction from the Seraglio_ as the _other_ Masonic opera. John tucks his feet under himself, cradles his cup of tea in his hands and wonders what Mrs Hudson must make of all of it.

“We remind her of those old swingers parties she use to go to.” Sherlock says quietly, leaning back against the couch, eyes closed.

Which is as reasonable enough an assessment as any at the end of the day, John supposes.


End file.
